The Gay of Pigs
by gutsygibbion
Summary: A poorly written and historically inaccurate portrayal of a romantic encounter between Fidel Castro and Che Guevara.


18th April, 1961.

Che leaned back in the uncomfortable war room chair. His eyes were glazed over, his gaze directed to the clock on the wall. The voice of the general addressing the conference echoed through the room, penetrating his ears and disturbing his inner thoughts. His crossed arms and frowning face indicated as much - he'd been sitting here for 3 hours now, and still the pontificating continued with no respite for his exhausted mind.

Ah, The Bay of Pigs. A resounding victory for Cuba, and an embarrassing defeat for the United States. And yet Che did not see the utility in discussing it as such length. They had won. The threat was, at least for now, neutralised. It was time to go and drink, to celebrate. Che was a solider, not a politician, and as such he had no patience for these proceedings. However, he decided to attend nonetheless - his friend and comrade Fidel had insisted. His presence helped maintain solidarity, Fidel assured him - and besides, there is no praxis without theory. Theory must be discussed, and the praxis determined in a democratic manner. The debate that took place in such gatherings was essential to maintaining the strength of Cuba and preventing despots from gaining power - as Fidel would have put it, anyway.

Personally, Che was inclined to leave the theory to the intellectuals. He was a man of praxis. Still, his admiration for Fidel compelled him to suffer the musings of less admirable men. He recalled the first time he had seen Fidel speak, heard that loud and cutting voice slice through the air. His linguistic precision did not compromise the passion and power his voice commanded, making for a truly enthralling and inspiring public speaker. Che would gladly have listened to his thoughts for hours on end... but this was not what he was here for today. Instead, Fidel was reclined in the seat next to him, eyes fixed on the general stood opposite. Occasionally he would nod gently in approval, or frown slightly in concern.

As the leader of the country it was naturally of utmost importance that Fidel paid attention to these meetings - although Che wondered if he was simply adept at appearing engaged, secretly holed up within his own mind. What could he be thinking of, if not this?

But before Che could contemplate this further, a sudden sensation startled him. The brush of a shoe against his shin... he turned his head instinctively, and found himself eye to eye with his comrade. Fidel briskly turned his head away, his foot in apparent retreat. Che returned his gaze to the clock, and the gears in his mind began turning. What could this gesture have meant? Was it an accident? This seemed plausible, but strange given that Fidel usually paid full attention to his surroundings. And as he once said himself: the human being is a strange mixture of blind instinct, on the one hand, and conscience, on the other. So, such an action might have been an irrational and compulsive move, a spasm of want or need... but this would not discount any agenda behind it.

These thoughts vexed Che, and he felt a strange emotion grow from within. His confidence in his companion had been put into question. Was this an attempt to encourage Che to pay more attention to the meeting? This seemed a likely reason, but it didn't feel quite right to Che. A simple tap on the arm would have sufficed for this. So then, was it an aggressive move? This seemed less likely still - Che has always known him to be a mild-mannered and considerate man in private, above the bullish micro violence many men would succumb to in order to appear dominant. Besides, the brush of his leg was not painful - if it were a kick he had received, well, that would be a different matter. One seemingly apt adjective rose to the front of Che's mind as he weighed these options against each other: intimate.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the harsh sound of chairs scraping the floor brought Che back to reality. Everyone was standing up, preparing to leave. The meeting was finally over, and he sprung from his seat, eager to make his exit.

"Comrade Che."

Fidel was facing him, wearing a strange expression on his bearded face. Something between a smile and a grimace.

"Thank you again for attending this meeting, we are all reassured by your presence on this glorious day. I trust you will be attending the celebrations?"

Che nodded curtly and turned to the door.

"Oh, and by the way."

He turned back.

"I'm sorry I startled you just now, I could tell I had broken your attention."

Che stammered out a reply.

"Don't worry comrade, it was nothing."

"This is good to hear, I was worried I had offended you. Please forgive my clumsiness, I've not had much sleep lately... these things happen"

He walked off.

It was late in the evening. Che sat alone on the edge of his bed, a bottle of rum in his hand and a burnt-out cigarette dangling from his lips. Outside, soldiers danced in the street, drunkenly singing. Their shadows bounced around the room, amplified through his window by the ferocious bonfire in the square below. Che wished they would call it a night and give him a chance to rest his overstimulated mind. Usually he enjoyed such jubilant gatherings, but tonight he couldn't muster the energy to join them.

It was emotional comfort he sought, something that could only be provided by the smile of a beloved family member, the laugh of a close friend, the embrace of a lover... the company of intoxicated strangers was not going to cut it, and he detested the extreme fanaticism some people had expressed in his presence lately. Alcohol was the next best thing, however, and so he took another swig from the bottle.

The shouts and screams from outside seemed to be getting louder. Che recalled the balcony on the other side of the building; perhaps here he could find some solace and drink in peace. He rose from his bed and threw on a loose shirt to cover his torso. Barefoot, he pushed through the door and meandered down the dark corridor. As he moved away from the noise and commotion outside his inner thoughts became more pronounced. He recalled the incident at the meeting earlier, his bewilderment at Fidel's seemingly insignificant action. Somehow, without his rational thought process to impede the gut reaction, his drunken state allowed him to more clearly recognise the emotion he'd felt in the heat of the moment. It was reminiscent of how he had felt as a younger man when a girl had glanced his way and met his eyes, of how he felt when she brushed her hair out of her face and smiled at him, of how he felt when she touched his hand for the first time, when she reached for his face and pulled it towards hers...

Che stopped walking. This could not be. This was wrong. He held his head in his hands and closed his eyes. He was drunk, exhausted, confused. Fidel could not have provoked such a reaction in him. He was Fidel! The leader of the revolution! A man! Of course, Che respected him deeply and was extremely grateful to count him as a friend. But this was the extent of their relationship, the end point of any male connection. Anything beyond that was simply perverse, unnatural.

"Che? Are you alright?"

He looked up. Standing in the doorframe was none other than Fidel, the moonlight shining through from behind him. He was wearing a casual outfit, cargo trousers and a simple vest barely concealing his muscular and hairy upper body. Che could do nothing but stare, surprised at his sudden encounter. Part of him wanted to turn and run, make his exit from this confounded situation and drink until he no longer remembered it. But, another part of him...

"You look like you could use some air. Why don't you join me on the balcony?"

"I, uh, suppose I could do that"

They stood adjacent, staring out into the sepia night. The comparative silence fell sweetly upon Che's ears, and as he adjusted to the ambience, he began noticed the gentle growl of Fidel's breathing, in rhythm with his swelling chest. As if on cue, Fidel withdrew an ornate wooden box from his pocket. He retrieved two cigars - long, thick, and of impeccable quality. Che took one instinctively and reached for his lighter.

_'click. click. click.'_

The flint span, and sparks flew, but no flame would emerge. It was out of fluid, it seemed.

"Let me help you with that."

Fidel spoke through his teeth as he puffed on the already lit cigar in his mouth and leant towards Che so as to touch the end of his and ignite it. Their eyes met briefly; Che closed his and inhaled, focusing on the rush of smoke filling his throat - and not the awkward atmosphere. A moment passed, and he managed to get a grasp of the thoughts racing around inside his head. Here he was, enjoying a quiet smoke with his friend on the eve of their victory. There was nothing untoward about this occasion, nothing out of the ordinary. He would make polite conversation, finish his cigar, and go to bed. Feeling relaxed, he leant forwards against the railings. Fidel moved back against the wall behind him, out of sight.

"We have achieved something great today, Che. Those American pigs will think twice before they try something like this again."

"Indeed. It's truly beyond comprehension, how stupid can they be? They can't have thought that this would work in their favour."

"Ah, well, I thought they might try something like this before long you know."

Che turned to look at him, a bemused smirk on his face. He could not help but be intrigued.

"How is that?"

"Well, we understand the two basic forces that drive men according to classical philosophy. Raw desire, and reason. The Americans know they want to destroy us, to steal our freedom and resources. But they know they cannot do so without severely angering the Soviet Union and risking nuclear war... so they do not."

Che nodded.

"But what enlightenment philosophy fails to recognise is the tertiary desire to be recognised... the thymos. We do not just want to meet our material needs, we want to be validated in their pursuit by our fellow human beings. It is this social aspect that explains the actions of the United States. They cannot bare to be told they are in the wrong, that their oppression of our people was unjust. So, this underhanded and shameful invasion was an attempt to vindicate themselves. Sending the bourgeois traitors who corroborated with their oppression to oppose us, and framing it as them taking back their land... this way, they are not imperialist invaders but righteous lovers of democracy assisting the underdogs in their struggle against the other."

"So, you're saying that we can be influenced not only by our desire and rationality, but also our relationships with others? This makes sense..."

Che was facing Fidel now, his cigar resting in the ashtray. As always, his words were enthralling.

"Yes, in a way. What drives a soldier to jump on a grenade to protect his comrades? He does not gain anything material in death, his conscience knows this. But he will be celebrated as a hero of his people and country. What lengths man will go to be recognised..."

"Indeed."

Che was struck by these insights. He wondered about his own conflicts. Could it be that his awareness of how people saw him could interfere with the actions he took towards fulfilling his desires? It seemed more than plausible... as he went over this, a certain desire came to mind. A desire that was forbidden, by himself and others. A desire that, if laid bare for all to see, would no doubt tarnish his reputation. And yet, could it be that there was nothing inherently wrong with this desire? That it was simply the pressure of others compelling him not to act upon it?

Before he had a chance to determine this for himself, Fidel answered for him. A slight touch of his hand against his was enough. Che was looking straight into his eyes, and for the first time noticing how beautiful they were. In contrast with his rugged and worn face, his eyes showed a warmth and compassion unlike any he had seen before. They pierced his soul.

"No one will know"

Fidel moved closer still, now grasping both of his hands. Che was overwhelmed, enamoured but utterly terrified. And yet the soothing hum of Fidel's body, conducted through their hand's contact, reduced his turmoil. After a moment, he exhaled, seemingly expelling all doubts and concerns from his body with his breath. He was ready.

They lay entangled on the bed, moving like waves lapping the sand with each kiss. Che was aggressive in his foreplay, placing his palm against Fidel's face, pulling at his hair. Fidel was shy; no less eager, but perhaps inclined towards a gentler approach. He pulled away momentarily just to flash his partner a smile, then slowly moved towards him again. His kisses were premeditated, passionate, slow - and inspired a similar response from Che. Still, as they continued, Che increased the intensity of his assault, and Fidel once again pulled away. Their synergy was balanced but lacked direction. Truthfully, this was what Fidel had intended - to frustrate Che, to build up tension. A master of strategy as always.

Che had had enough of being teased. He reached for the mass of hair on Fidel's chest and pushed his tongue through his lips and into his mouth. Fidel was surprised, yet delighted. He found himself on his back as Che pulled at his vest. Grinning, he assisted him in its removal. Che moved in to kiss him once more and moved his hand to Fidel's crotch as his did so. The muted pop of buttons unclasped, the slight friction of briefs sliding off... it was enough to induce a sexual euphoria in both men. So, the impact on a wet mouth, the stroke of a worn yet gentle hand, the taste of tobacco infused saliva... the sensations were transcendental.

Fidel closed his eyes and clenched his fists, his arms wrapped around Che's slender body. Each thrust induced an involuntary gasp of delight, every withdrawal a moan of pleasure. Che could not help but oscillate his hips faster and faster. His whole body was vibrating with an electric sensation which was only getting stronger, compounding at an exponential rate. He bowed his head and dug it into Fidel's shoulder. As both men climaxed their cries harmonised; Che's masculine front shattered upon impact as he melted into his lover. His eyes opened, and he found himself meeting Fidel's gaze, peering into those beautiful auburn spheres.

The battle against the invading forces was over. And yet, Che realised as he lay next to his lover, an invasion had indeed taken place. It was discreet, embroiled in subterfuge and employing imperceptible actions - the work of a master tactician. This was no conventional warfare - there was no violence, no death, no misery. For it was the battle for his heart that had been won, now the territory of another man.


End file.
